Page 139 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I look down at him.

His chest is still. mouth is open. A red halo beneath him.

And I know—I did that.

I ended him.

And I don’t feel guilty.

I feel…

The quiet.

It sinks in behind my ears, across the crown of my head like cool, thick sludge. Not warm. Not fuzzy. Just… quiet. Heavy. Like my brain pulled the emergency brake and everything is coasting in slow motion.

I exhale, long and shaky, like I’ve been holding it in for hours.

My arms tremble. My thighs ache from kneeling.

There’s blood everywhere—on my hands, under my nails, soaking my shirt, my bra, my soul.

It’s in my hair. On my face. I can taste it again. Copper and adrenaline.

I shuffle back toward the house like I’m underwater.

The knife drops from my hand with a dull clatter on the cement.

I don’t even look at him. Not yet.

I’m still floating, trying not to break the euphoria.

Dexter is barking—sharp and frantic. Like an alarm clock in a bomb shelter.

That’s what pulls me back. That panicked sound yanks me out of my daze and slams me into my body.

“Dex…” I whisper, voice cracked and raw.

Then he stops barking.

Just—goes quiet.

He’s sniffing something.

I blink, vision catching up half a second too late.

I look at him. The man I killed. But something is… wrong.

Finally, I see it.

One eye missing. It’s now just a dark, hollow pit.

The other stares blankly at the sky like it’s waiting for instructions. Blood everywhere. Skin torn. Like something tried to peel him open and quit halfway through.

And Dexter…

Dexter is sniffing the eyeball.

“Ew—Dexter. No!”

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